These Lovely Days
by chelsea.kau
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is slowly forgetting the great consulting detective; what he looks like, smells like... The memory of the fall continues to haunt John every time he closes his eyes. When Sherlock returns, he comes home to find that everything has changed. Especially the one man he called his heart. Crap summary. Sorry. Might contain some johnlock slash in the future.
1. Chapter 1

**My name is Chelsea. Sorry if the story sucks... Forgive me because I'm only a freshman in highschool. But, if someone wants to give me constructive feedback I'm up for the corrections. This is a story post-Reichenbach. I don't own any single one of these characters. So, hopefully you guys will enjoy my version of post-Reichenbach. **

* * *

Noise. Loud noise. Not the kind that you hear when leaves rustle or the sound that the hairdryer emits.

This noise is the sound of the brain thinking, the eyes observing and the mind flowing. It's loud and distracting. The whirring of brain cells processing information along with the clicking of eyes capturing every single detail that echoes throughout a body.  
The noise of the mind. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

* * *

It was a day like any other. Dull. Boring. Everything achingly normal. The noises of everyday life clouded the thinking process of Sherlock Holmes's brain. He couldn't think. He couldn't concentrate on the numbers and codes his mind was creating. Everything was too loud.

"AHHHHHHH!" he shouted at the wall in his flat's sitting room. It was a pretty decent one for being in the middle of Paris. One bedroom, one small bath, and a kitchen. Nothing like the comfort and security of Baker Street.

The bedroom was littered with maps of Europe and America, everything connected with strands of red string; each string led to a different place in the world and all were connected to one person: Moriarty. The center of the web. _He's dead_. The strings were slowly cut one by one, as Sherlock made progress destroying Moriarty's web.

Now, there was only one string left and it led to London. Sebastian Moran.

**I'm coming home -SH**

**Yes, I know-MH**

* * *

The fall... The deafening sound of a skull coming into contact with the pavement, splintering. Rich red blood spilling out of his ears and head; the dark curls matted with the liquid substance. The ice blue eyes staring vacantly up into the sky; observing nothing, seeing nothing, empty.

John woke up screaming and being shaken by a very concerned Mrs. Hudson. She was used to it by now... "It's alright, Mrs. Hudson... Go back to bed." John choked. She nodded before quietly exiting his room.

* * *

John carefully placed a small bouquet of white roses in front of Sherlock's grave. The black and white contrasted perfectly with one another.

"I don't know why I keep coming back here…" he sounded strong, but he was cracked on the inside. "Well, um. It's been three years, Sherlock. Three years." He inhaled sharply and then sighed, "I've stopped seeing you around the flat and around the streets. And that's, uh, that actually scares me a lot." He choked back a sob.

"Well… I still miss you and I'm starting to forget what you look and smell like… What you sound like… But I don't want to forget anything, Sherlock. Especially if it has to do with you." John couched a little, clearing his throat and said, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. And I, uh, I… I love you…"

John pressed his fingers to his lips and then touched the grave for a moment.

With that said the doctor nodded down at the grave and then made his way back to the cab that brought him to the graveyard.

He didn't cry this year. Almost did. But no. Sherlock is dead, gone, and he's never coming back. John had his time to mourn over his friend.

The old stairs creaked as John made his way up to the sitting room.

Everything had a thin layer of dust. Everything except John's old chair, a few areas around the kitchen, and the fireplace. Other than that, Sherlock's stuff lay untouched since the day of the fall.

He tried to stay away from the flat for a while; that didn't work. 221B Baker Street was... is his home.

Oh. God knows how many times John tried to kill himself. Five times he pulled the trigger; Five times it didn't work. Mycroft's meddeling. But the insufferable man was only trying to help him. After all, he was partly responsible for Sherlock's death. Ice man does have feelings after all.

John groaned as he eased himself down onto his comfy chair. He rested his aluminium cane on his arm rest and stared at the empty chair across of him. He just sat there, trying to remember Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, I'm writing up as much as I can before I don't have any time. Thanks for reading this, if you are! Once again, I must say that I do not own any of these characters. Mahalo.**

* * *

"Sherlock, it's been three years. You should tell him already." Ice blue eyes flashed with annoyance. "I can tell time _Mycroft_. And I'm sure John is fine." Sherlock glared at his brother.

The elder Holmes inspected his finger nails and brushed off an imaginary fluff from his suit. "He was a tad bit worse two years ago. You're lucky I had my eyes on him, brother, otherwise your doctor would be in his own grave right now."

Sherlock stiffened in his chair, his knuckles turned white from gripping the edge of his armrest. John wouldn't do that… Would he? "John. He's strong…" he replied. Mycroft smirked and raised an eyebrow, "I wouldn't be too sure about that…" he said, "John has changed quite a lot since you've been dead. He isn't the same person anymore. You should see him; it saddens me to see such talent go to waste."

"The only reason why I came back is because of Moran." Sherlock said to his elder brother. Mycroft nodded and pulled out a file from his desk. "Sebastian Moran. He's quite the extraordinaire. He served in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for the Royal Army Corps. Unhonorably discharged for torturing, and killing a few of his men. I'm sure this man knows John." Mycroft said while flipping through the file.

He handed it to Sherlock, who quickly read through the important details, et cetera. "Moran has his eyes on John. I'm sure of it. And I will not rest until this man is put behind bars for the rest of his life, Mycroft." Sherlock told his brother fiercely, not even looking up at him. Mycroft clicked his tongue and said, "Consider it done, Sherlock. I trust you'll tell the doctor sooner than later?"

Sherlock rose from his chair, handed his brother the file and then quickly left the office. It was interesting, to Mycroft, to see his brother act in such a peculiar way. Ah. That was it: love.

* * *

Brown, curly hair.

Piercing blue, sometimes grey, eyes.

Tall.

Skinny.

Lanky.

Genius.

Deep baritone voice.

Long, thin, spidery fingers.

Muscular for the most part.

Bloody annoying.

John posted sticky notes all around the flat to keep him from forgetting Sherlock Holmes. Christ. Three years. And John was still hung over his best friend. Is that even normal? Is it healthy? Probably not. Then again, Sherlock Holmes is... was amazing and brilliant. Not ordinary like John thought he was himself.

"Christ, Sherlock..." he spoke to the nonexistent person. "Please come back. I know it's been three years already, but I just can't ever move on..." He inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath. _"Oh, John. Don't be so emotional. You know what it does for my nerves." _a voice echoed throughout the flat. John choked a bit. "It's been a long time... And you're my best friend. Why, Sherlock?" he asked.

_"You'd never understand." _

John closed his eyes and tried to imagine Sherlock sitting across of him in his chair. A tall, pale blurry figure started to form in his mind. But John couldn't get any of the details. "Why can't I see all of you?" John's voice sounded so small.

_"I don't know, John. I don't know..." _

The fall. Sherlock's head came into contact with the ground. John shrieked and opened his eyes, panting. A small layer of sweat formed on his brow and upper lip. "Bloody hell..." he choked out before sobbing.

The tears flooded from his eyes, wetting his jumper. The sobbing was uncontrolable. Every time John would stop crying, fresh tears would spring into his eyes.


End file.
